Contextually Speaking
by cosmogirl7481
Summary: Bella spends her days surrounded by books and her nights immersed in them. Reading but not living. Imagining but not experiencing. One night changes everything. A story about wrong numbers and a stranger with all the right words.
1. Chapter 1

**For Marvar: Because I love her and because she deserves a little fluff after my last fic.**

Everything is quiet.

It's usually quiet here, but everything feels especially quiet tonight. I shrug off the lonely feelings that come and go, but tonight they seem to linger.

I look over to the small fire that warms the space of my living room. And this – this right here – is exactly what I was hoping for when I came here a year ago.

Comfort.

Warmth.

Peace and quiet.

My fingers trail along the spines of books that line the shelf on my wall. I've read most of them, but there are some that I haven't. Some were bought on a whim in bright, big bookstores. And some of them have been in my collection for years. Classics. But somehow they always seem too daunting to pick up.

I settle for fluff.

And not even a real book.

Rather, an eBook on Kindle.

It's a book I'd never buy in a real store. But thankfully, the people at Amazon have made anonymity in buying a lucrative business.

I look at the cover art. It's always the same. Some woman in the arms of a more than attractive man. Because in these books, the men are always strong, always hot…and always well-endowed.

And the woman is always one of two things:

So gorgeous her beauty must be divine – a gift from heaven (or whatever place the deity of the book resides). Or…

Plain and shy. Painfully so. And so grateful that the hot man with the big cock is even paying any attention to her at all. Never mind the fact that he wants to put his big cock inside her.

I hope he puts it inside her soon.

And I'll let you guess which one of those stereotypes I identify with.

I refuse to say it out loud.

I settle in on the couch, the quiet still surrounding me, but with the promise of fluff and smut, the loneliness seems abated. And I begin to read.

.

.

.

The fire is dwindling…the hero is amorous. He's whispering dirty, dirty things in the heroine's ear. And I'm wondering why… Why didn't I have the foresight to pull out my vibrator? And I'm also wondering why… Why doesn't anything like this happen in real life?

Where are these men?

I laugh a little.

Strapping men with big dicks who are only looking for the love of a good woman must not frequent the same places I frequent. They're never at the library where I work because apparently, hot men don't read. They're never at the grocery store because once again, hot men don't cook. And the only two men at my house are Emmett and Jasper. And both of them lost their balls a long time ago. Although, the way they lick each other, you'd swear they still had them…and were obviously gay.

Cats are funny.

I hear my phone ping with an incoming text message.

I'm so comfortable and caught up in my book that I don't want to even move to get up. Although, I reason with myself that once I'm up, I could head to my room to retrieve the little black satin bag from the drawer in my nightstand. Then when I get back to the dirty, dirty words…I can be really fucking happy. And relaxed enough to sleep.

So, I pad over on the soft carpet and I look at the screen.

The text is from a number I don't recognize.

And the words that I'm reading are so dirty they could be from the pages of my book.

**I hope you don't mind. But I'm a little drunk and a lot naked. And REALLY fucking hard.**

**.**

**.**

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**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**So, a little something new.**

**An idea that I just couldn't get out of my head.**

**It's going to be another hard and fast one. It will post and complete by tonight.**

**Saving the love and thanks till the end! But I couldn't have done this without them.**

**As always, I don't own them. I just like to make them say and do dirty things.**

**Happy Birthday to my beautiful friend and fellow perv, kelysuperficial! I love you, sweet girl!**

**See you all shortly.**


	2. Chapter 2

I stare at the screen for several seconds…minutes. I don't know.

The only thing I know is that nothing like this ever happens to me.

And then I realize it's not really happening to me. These dirty words are meant for someone else.

This man obviously misdialed.

But I can't stop reading and rereading the words.

Over and over.

Naked and hard.

Like the man in my book.

I should delete it. I should delete this text, turn my phone off and walk away.

But I can't.

I can't and I don't know what that means.

Well, I do know what that means. Secretly, somewhere deep inside me, I know what I want to do. I shouldn't do it, obviously. But the fact that I shouldn't only makes me want to so much more.

So much.

So very much.

Quickly, with trembling fingers that almost can't type, I respond.

**How drunk is a little drunk?**

The moment I send the text, I feel a rush of adrenaline. I haven't felt this excited in so long. Years. It's been years.

But I also feel a pang of guilt for my behavior. What do I expect to come from this? This man is obviously involved with someone else. That text was meant for her…or him. Yes, I reread the text again. There is nothing that leads me to believe that this was absolutely meant for a woman. A man could want him naked and hard.

Just as I'm writing him off as a fierce gay man who probably has a drag queen name and more glitter on his hard body than Ke$ha, the screen of my phone illuminates and pings with another incoming message.

And I look.

I have to.

**Not so drunk that I don't know I want you naked with me.**

I shiver at the blatant way he says things. And I think about the power of words. I read. A lot. And while I feel like I should be ashamed that I find these crass, blunt words arousing, I know that I'm not. Well, not really.

I keep my phone in my hand and I head back over to the couch.

Am I really doing this?

Am I really going to do this?

My internal struggle is a façade. It's only real enough to allow me some dignity when this is all over.

I want to text him.

I want to flirt.

I haven't flirted in ages. And in person, it's always awkward. My nerves always get the best of me and it never comes across the way I envision it in my mind. But just like my purchases on Amazon, this is anonymous. I can do this without fear of embarrassment.

Without fear of rejection.

**I'm not naked. **

I send.

**Yet.**

I add quickly and send immediately after.

I smile. It spreads across my face. I feel excitement and warmth in my cheeks. My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. I curl my legs under myself, and hold my phone in my lap. My eBook has fallen to the side.

Forgotten.

Because even though I know this isn't _really_ real – it's more real than the fictional words about fictional people.

And this is about me.

Me…and whoever this is.

And just like that, the screen lights up. A small sound, a subtle vibration against my leg that causes me to shiver.

**And what will it take to get you naked?**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**See you all shortly!**


	3. Chapter 3

His question is harmless, but real.

And I wonder what it would take to actually get me naked. I mean…I _am_ alone. No one is here. And no one would ever, ever know.

But I shake my head.

I'm definitely not ready to be naked.

**What did you have in mind?**

I ask, I send...I wait.

While I'm waiting, I remember that he actually thinks he's talking to someone else. It bothers me. These words aren't mine. They're not meant for me.

**Do you really want to know?**

I do.

I so fucking do.

But…

**I'm not who you think I am.**

I send it before I chicken out. I send it before my own desire for something exciting causes me to mislead this sort of drunk, really fucking hard man.

And then there's nothing.

Minutes that feel like hours of nothing.

And just when I've resigned myself to the fact that he's realized his mistake, that he's probably embarrassed and well…not hard anymore, another text.

**Who do you think I think you are?**

And how do I respond to that?

What is the right answer?

Another woman.

Someone younger.

Someone prettier.

Someone…else.

**Trust me. I'm not her. Or him. If you were expecting a him.**

Another response.

It's almost immediate.

**I wasn't.**

I don't know why, but his words make me tremble. And he's still responding, still communicating. Even though he must know his mistake by now.

I smile, unable to stop myself.

**So, who were you expecting?**

I don't know what I expect him to say. Do I really want to know who he was hot and naked for?

**How do you know I wasn't expecting you?**

And that…_that_ is unexpected.

I laugh a little.

Trust me. I know.

There's a long pause. A silence that makes me squirm.

And then…

**Who are you?**

I can answer this.

I can without lying.

**Just a girl.**

Well, maybe "girl" is stretching it a bit.

**Are you Gwen Stefani? **

This makes me laugh out loud. This makes me laugh _so_ loud that I scare Jasper and Emmett. They give me snide looks before both of them jump down from the ottoman they were sleeping on and head into another room.

They're probably embarrassed for me.

**Not so much.**

I send before I think about how lame my response is.

**What's your name?**

No.

No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No!

No names.

**I'm not telling you that.**

I hope he didn't expect me to actually answer him. Because what if he knows me? I mean, he could actually know me. But what are the odds of that? My circle is small. Really small. It's not even a circle, so much as a triangle.

Me, Jasper and Emmett.

I guess I could say my circle is a square. I do know people at work. But I doubt that any of the old ladies at the library are texting me this late at night.

**Why not? I'll bet your name is beautiful.**

I pause.

I stare.

I chew my bottom lip.

My name _is_ actually beautiful.

Well, it means "beautiful" anyway.

**It is.**

I smile even though I'm nervous. Even though I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'm not as anonymous as I'd hoped. But his knowing me is impossible. I reassure myself with the knowledge that I don't know anyone here.

**Well then, how old are you?**

I stare at the screen.

**28**

I lie. I'm thirty, but since I turned thirty, thirty seems so old. Thirty year olds don't drunk dial. Or drunk text. Thirty year olds apparently stay home at night drinking tea and reading dirty books. Instead of actually doing dirty things.

Fuck.

He's probably twenty-one.

He's probably just old enough to drink and still in college.

**Call me.**

What?

Oh my god.

What?

**Why?**

I send, but it's not enough.

So, I type out another response.

**Why do you want me to call you?**

And the adrenaline is back in full-force. The pounding, pounding heart. The dry mouth. The flushed cheeks.

**Because I want to hear the voice of the nameless woman who's still making me hard.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**See you all shortly!**


	4. Chapter 4

Wait.

What?

I have to read his last text again. Did he really just ask me to call him? Did he really just tell me that I was making him hard?

Me.

Not someone else.

Of course he did, Bella.

He's drunk and horny.

**I don't think it's really me. I think it could be anyone.**

Calling him. Yeah, that would be way too much. And way more than I was bargaining for.

But even as I think about the fact that there is no way in hell that I'm calling him, I can't help but feel my speeding pulse, the fresh wave of excitement that washes over me.

**I think you're wrong.**

His words make me smile. Even though I shouldn't.

And then, four texts. One right after the other.

**It's definitely you. **

**Call me.**

**You know you want to.**

**I know you want to.**

I'm blushing even though no one is here to see me.

I'm dying because secretly…secretly, I want to.

**How do you know that?**

I ask him because I want to know what he thinks.

And because I don't want this – whatever this is – to stop.

So, maybe if I keep asking him questions, he'll keep responding. And maybe the texting will be enough. For him. I mean, it's definitely enough for me. Seriously. It feels right and wrong…good and bad.

But then I allow myself – just for a second – to imagine what it might be like to talk to him.

To hear his voice.

And I wonder if his voice is as sexy as his words.

If it were a book it would be.

I know it would be.

But this is not a book.

**I know because you're still texting.**

His response is disarming.

And maybe right.

Completely, completely right.

**How old are you?**

I ask because I need to make sure that he's not some kid in college. I ask because I need to know if I should just kill myself now.

_Please don't be a child._

_Please don't be a child._

And by child I mean early twenties.

And then it strikes me that he might be an _actual_ child. Like, he could be a teenager. And now I'm panicked because I'm pretty sure that I might throw up if he is.

**Older than you.**

My relief is tangible.

I feel it cover and relax every tense muscle in my body.

But I lied about my age.

He could be lying about his.

Of course he's lying about his age if he's a teenager.

**How much older?**

I wait.

I bite my nails.

I stare at the phone.

And just when I think I can't stand it anymore…his response.

**Call me and I'll tell you.**

And my head spins as the room seems to shrink.

He really wants to talk to me. And then my mind immediately goes to why?

Why does he want to?

And if he really wants to, what will he expect from this late night conversation. I'm pretty sure he's not going to want to talk about the weather or current events. Not that I really know much about current events. All the events I know of take place within the pages of the books I read.

And what if this was one of the books I read?

In forty-two seconds, I surmise the plot in my mind.

If this were a book, I would call. If this were a book, calling him would be the action that continued the story and moved the plot forward.

But this isn't a book.

I'm not a heroine.

And I doubt that he's one of the men that I read and sometimes (alright, most times) dream about.

So, I'm honest.

**I can't. **

He deserves a reason.

**I'm nervous.**

More.

**And shy.**

One million, three hundred and forty-eight seconds later…

**Then I'll call you.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**See you all shortly!**


	5. Chapter 5

The phone rings and I don't want to answer it.

And I want to answer it a million times.

His unknown number flashes on the screen. I take a deep breath and find some semblance of security and calm in the fact that he is still just that.

Unknown.

Both of us are still unknown to each other.

He doesn't know who I am, where I live, what I do.

Me hearing his voice and him hearing mine isn't going to change that.

"Hello," I say.

I sound breathless. Like a fucking phone sex operator. Only I'm not breathless because I'm sexy or turned on. Well, I might be a little turned on. No, I'm breathless because my heart is pounding like I just ran a ten minute mile. And let's face it, I wasn't even able to do that in high school.

A deep breath and exhale crosses the phone lines between us. And then a deep, soft chuckle.

He sounds masculine.

He sounds like a man.

And not a boy.

"You _are_ a woman," he says. "I was beginning to get a little nervous."

His voice.

I die.

It sounds like every voice of every character I've ever imagined while I read.

"Was there ever a question?" I ask, laughing even though I'm nervous, smiling when I hear him laugh as well.

"You didn't have a question about me?" he asks.

I want him to just talk to me all night. I want to hear his voice on a loop saying the sweet, dirty things I read about in books.

"I thought you were a child."

He chokes and coughs while I die of embarrassment, falling back on the cushions of my couch.

"What?"

"Not a child," I say quickly. "Not a real one. Like a young man…I don't know. Like twenty-one or something. Which would still be way too young for me."

No, really, Bella.

Shut the fuck up.

"I haven't been twenty-one in over a decade," he says.

And his voice – yes I'm going to be talking about this man's voice forever – tells me he's telling the truth.

"How old are you?" I ask.

He laughs and it's nice.

"Will you stop talking about my age if I tell you?"

He sounds playful. Like, I'm pretty sure he's one of those men that men and women both like.

"You told me you would tell me if I called you," I fake huff.

"But you didn't call me," he says, smoothly. "I called you."

And the voice…seriously. It's like warm butter is melting down every inch of my skin. Not that warm butter has ever dripped down anything other than my chin. Just…you know, when I eat corn on the cob. And this is why I read books and don't write them. My metaphors suck.

And now I'm talking to an actual man with a gorgeous voice…and I'm thinking about metaphors.

"I told you mine," I say.

Even though it was a lie.

"I'm thirty-two," he says, his voice lower, sexier.

"I'm thirty," I blurt out. "I told you I was twenty-eight because thirty sounded old. But I feel bad for lying. I'm not a good liar. I mean, I guess it doesn't matter in the long run. I mean, we could pretend I'm twenty-eight if that makes…_this_…I don't know…better for you."

There's a long silence.

Too long.

Alright, maybe it's only like five seconds.

"Why would you being twenty-eight make…_this_," he mimics my pause, my voice, "better?"

Fuck.

Me.

"I don't know," I'm suddenly quiet, forcing myself not to speak and tell him any more embarrassing things.

Like maybe he wants to know that I'm a librarian. That's sexy. Or maybe he wants to know about my two cats. Even sexier.

I just have one question," he says. "What… What do you think _this_ is?"

.

.

.

**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**See you all shortly!**


	6. Chapter 6

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

"Umm…I…umm…" I stammer. "…yeah, so…I don't… What do _you_ think this is?"

I try to turn the question around on him. Because what does he really expect me to say? I mean, I wasn't the one making sexual innuendo via text. And come on. Is telling me you're hard – when you're a man – really innuendo? I'm pretty sure that's blatant and straight forward.

"I asked you first," he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. This of course causes me to smile.

"So?" I try to sound playful. I'm pretty sure I suck. "I asked you second. What's your point?"

I hear rustling in the background on his end. It sounds like sheets and blankets.

"Are you in bed?" I ask before the intelligent side of my brain has a chance to beat down the stupid side. In all fairness, the stupid side seems to be gaining weight. I'm pretty sure it could take the intelligent side in a wrestling match.

He laughs again. And I melt. There's something…something wonderful and warm about his laugh. Something sexy. Like, I'm pretty sure I could lick it…or him.

I panic because I'm thinking about licking him or his laugh. And I bite down hard on my bottom lip, so my thoughts don't make their way out of my mouth.

"Do you want me to be?" he asks, lower, rougher than before.

And right now I've decided…rough is definitely better than smooth. Especially when it's his voice – all rough over smooth and low and breathy.

I definitely do _not_ sound like that when I'm breathy.

"I – I…I don't know what you want me to say," I manage.

"What do you _want_ to say?" He stresses the word 'want.' And if it's possible, his voice is even better than before. "Tell me. Anything. I want to know what you're thinking….right now. Don't think. Just…talk."

"Are you still hard?"

I hear the words. They hang in the air and resonate in my mind like a clock that won't stop chiming. So, I know that I've said them. I know – somewhere inside both the intelligent and stupid sides of my brain – I _know_ that I've asked him this question.

But I refuse to believe it.

Nope.

Still not believing it.

Fourteen minutes or maybe seventeen seconds later, he still hasn't answered.

And then he does.

"Yes."

And then I die.

Truly, my chest is pounding so hard and so loud, I fear that I may be having a heart attack.

"And yes," he murmurs.

And murmuring is better than rough.

No, wait…maybe it's not. I don't know. Trying to decide between them both is too hard. And then I remember that he's hard.

He just told me that he's hard.

"Yes?" I ask, trying to focus on his words. "Yes, what?"

"Yes," he murmurs again. "I'm in bed."

This is so much better than any book.

"Fuck," I whisper. And I can't even care. He just told me he's in bed…and hard. And 'fuck' is the only word capable of expressing what I'm feeling.

"Tell me something," he says.

He doesn't ask me. He tells me. And because of that, I decide that whatever he wants me to tell him…I fucking will.

"What?"

"Are you in bed?"

I swallow, I breathe.

"No."

"Do you want to be?"

.

.

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**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**See you all shortly!**


	7. Chapter 7

"Yes," I breathe the word before my mind can tell me not to say it.

Because right now I do want to be in bed. Right now I want to be like him all naked and covered up in sheets and blankets and listening to his voice.

"Well, then," he says slowly, like he's testing the words, thinking about them, "what are you waiting for?"

It takes me a minute to realize what he's said – to fully process what his words mean.

He wants me to go get in my bed. He wants me to be like him, too. And a part of me – I don't know if it's the stupid or intelligent part – doesn't know if I'm capable of actually following through with all this. This…whatever this is.

You know what this is, Bella.

I roll my eyes even as I blush just thinking about it.

And for as many times as I've read about this, I've never, never, ever done it.

"You're quiet," he murmurs. And really, how is his voice able to make me melt like this. Like I'm nothing but a puddle of water. Only I don't feel like water. I feel like syrup. All thick and sticky and hot. "What are you thinking? Where did your mind go?"

"Do you really want me to go get in my bed?" I blurt out.

I wince when he laughs.

But relax a little when I hear that his breathing is still heavy.

Heat floods me, and I tingle all over when I hear him groan. It's not a loud groan – just enough to let me know that my words haven't deflated him in any way.

He's still turned on.

And I am more turned on than I've ever been… I gasp because I realize that I've never been this aroused in my life.

Not with books.

Not with my vibrator.

Not with all (two) of the men I've ever been with.

"I want…" he starts and stops. I wait for him to continue, still reeling from the realization that a man I don't even know has made me feel this way. "I want…you to do whatever will make you feel good. Do you _want_ to feel good?"

"Yes."

I don't think about it. I just say it. I've decided to tell whichever side of my brain that would make me not do this to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out.

"Do you want _me_ to make you feel good?"

Yes, yes, yes, yes….

A million times, plus a little bit more…YES!

"I already feel good," I tell him. I don't know if I should speak. I'm pretty sure that whatever he might have to say is so much better and so much hotter than anything that could come out of my mouth. It's true. In fact, it might be the truest thought that's ever occurred to me. But then I realize that I have to say something else because I want him to know that it's him. All of this is him. "I mean…you've already made me feel good."

Another small groan from him.

Maybe a grunt.

And I briefly wonder if he's touching himself.

Is his hand on his cock?

Is his cock as big as the cocks I read about in my super secret Amazon stash?

Probably not.

But he's not really here, so I'm going to imagine that it is.

"You already feel good?" he asks, his voice thick and tight.

And his voice. I swear to god…every single time it kills me a little more.

"Yes."

"You have no idea," he whispers.

Shivers…all over my body.

"I don't?"

"No," he says softly. Even though it doesn't sound soft. Even though it sounds like saying it was difficult. "We're just getting started."

.

.

.

**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**See you all shortly!**


	8. Chapter 8

I gasp.

I choke.

I have an entire and complete meltdown the moment he says the words.

Or maybe that all just happens in my head. Well, except for the gasping and the choking. Pretty sure I do both those things.

"We are?" I ask, my voice shaking and honestly, excited if 'just getting started' is the truth.

"Are you in bed yet?" he asks, I fight the urge to moan.

"No."

Seven seconds that feel like days.

"What are you waiting for?"

I take the stairs up to my room. I pray the entire time I walk up them that I don't become winded like I usually do because I'm basically not in shape in any way. I try to hold the phone away from my mouth. It's to no avail because I hear him whisper in my ear, "You're panting."

"It's not because I'm hot for you," I say, embarrassed that I'm breathing like I just ran a marathon instead of taking twenty-three stairs. And then I die because I realize what has just come out of my mouth. Goddamn stupid side of my brain. He laughs, I force myself to breathe through my nose. "I mean I am…I just…I am."

The words are true. I know it when I say them.

I am hot for him.

Hot and turned on like a lamp or a stove.

All for a man I don't even know. I don't even know what he looks like. I decide as that truth occurs to me, I will pretend he looks like Ryan Gosling. He's hot and seems to be the kind of man who would do something like this. Only this man – the one I'm _actually_ talking to – has a better voice.

Ryan Gosling with a better voice.

I die.

"You are?" he asks, and for a moment I don't know what he's asking about. "Hot…" he drags out the word. It seems forced like my breathing. "For me?"

"God, yes," I practically moan. I'm surprised I have enough air to moan like a whore – like a phone-sex whore – but I do.

"Are you in your bedroom?"

The door is cracked, but I push it open and step inside before I answer him.

"Yes."

I turn on the light. Emmett and Jasper are on my bed. Jasper hisses and rolls off Emmett. Both of them glare at me before jumping down and trotting out of the room. Moody, gay cats.

I think for a moment that maybe I should turn the light back off. This seems like something I should do in the dark.

Something secret.

Something dirty.

"I want you naked," he whispers. And fuck me, his voice is like silk – raw and soft and covering every inch of my body.

"Naked?" I whisper, suddenly even more nervous than before.

"Yes. Completely naked," he says. "Like me," he adds, almost like he can sense my nerves and wants me to know that we're in this together.

At least, that's what I tell myself. The man on the phone who's whispering naughty things like I've only ever read in books in my ear – the one who looks like Ryan Gosling – he would _want_ me to know that.

"Okay," I squeak.

"Put the phone down," he says, "and take your clothes off. All of them. I want to hear it."

I don't say another word. Adrenaline spikes and courses through me as I place my phone on the bed. With shaking hands that tell me I'm scared, but a mind and body that screams how much I want this, I slowly undress. And piece by piece, my bare skin is exposed.

The air in the room is cool as it touches and covers every inch of me.

But I'm still hot.

All over.

For him.

I pick up the phone, clutching it in my hand, and I whisper, "I'm naked."

"Fuck," he hisses. "You are?"

"Completely," I murmur, feeling calmer than before. "Just like you said."

One…

Two…

Fifty-three seconds later…

"Get in the bed."

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.

**A/N**

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	9. Chapter 9

I'm in bed.

I'm naked and in my bed.

The sound of his breath on the phone has every muscle in my body on edge, but there's something comforting about this soft space that belongs to only me. I try to focus on the relaxing feeling, so that I can control my rapid breathing.

It doesn't work.

Not so much.

"Tell me your name," he whispers, his voice soft, pleading.

My whole body tenses at his request. Irrational fear courses through me and I fight the urge to sit up…to hang up.

"No," I whisper back.

"Why?" he asks. "I want to know your name. I want to…I want to say it."

And the truth is I _want_ him to say my name. I want to know that this – what's happening right now, the way he says he feels – is about me.

And then I remember something. It picks and plucks at the back of my mind. It's real and it reminds me that this…this isn't.

"Because that's too much," I whisper honestly. "It's too real."

"You don't want this to be real?" he asks, his voice still soft, maybe hurt. Only I don't know why he should sound hurt. "Not even a little bit?"

"It's not," I insist, frustrated at the turn of conversation. Where is the man from before? The one who was hot? The one who was hard? The one who was telling me to take off my clothes? The one who was going to make me…come? With his words. Where is he? "It's not. It can't be."

"Why not?"

He offers no other words, no other requests. Just one simple question. And it's so simple, I'm angry that he needs or wants me to explain.

This is _not_ like a book.

A man in a book would do what he said.

A man in a book would follow through with the plot.

The smut.

"I don't know," I say flippantly. "Could it have something to do with the fact that the text that led us to this point wasn't even intended for me?"

Red heat covers my face. I feel it burn my cheeks, my lips. I feel stupid tears sting the corners of my eyes.

And it's like I just remembered that small fact myself.

I was so busy pretending that I forgot what was real.

And the reality is that a man like this would never send me the first message to begin with.

Not shy Bella, who lives alone in a small quiet town by herself.

Not Bella, the librarian, who reads more than she lives.

"In fact," I continue, determined, "I think you should text _her_," I spit the word because even though I shouldn't – even though I have no right to – I hate whoever _she_ is. Because _she's_ the one he really wants. I am just the fallback – the transposed number he misdialed because he was 'a little drunk.'

He sighs, my heart pounds.

And I'm so fucking angry at the turn this has taken.

Shamed, I wait for him to speak. The part of me that wants to go back to just a few moment ago can't force myself to end the call.

The silence is too long.

The silence fucking kills me.

And every, every second I die a little bit more.

And then I hear his voice.

Soft and strong and surer than I expect it to be.

"There's no one else."

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	10. Chapter 10

"I don't believe you."

I say the words because they're true.

I say the words and hope, hope, hope so much that I'm wrong.

And the fact that I'm hoping is bad. I think. Yes, I definitely think it's bad.

"There isn't," he whispers. "There's no one. Why don't you believe me?"

"Because the first text you sent wasn't meant for me."

I close my eyes tight and wish I just had the strength to hang up. Wish I still didn't shiver and melt from the heat I feel inside me at the sound of his voice. Wish I wasn't still painfully aroused and on edge needing, needing, needing release.

"My first text doesn't matter," he says low and hot.

And even though he's not here – even though he's somewhere else entirely – it's almost like I can feel his breath all warm and wet in my ear.

"What _does_ matter then?"

My hand grips the sheet that covers me.

_Me._

My fingers press and squeeze until it hurts.

_Tell me I matter._

"The first text you sent me."

And whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. It wasn't those words.

"Why?" My voice is small, but I know he hears me.

"Because you responded," he says. "Because you kept responding. Because you're there…_still there_. And you don't have to be. And do you know what that tells me? Do you know what I think that means?"

I don't speak because I can't.

I don't even breathe because I'm afraid to.

And I don't know what he thinks that means.

But I know why I'm still here.

And just as I acknowledge the truth – just as soon as the realization hits me – he speaks.

"You're still there because you want to be," he breathes. "You're still there because you want this. And you want this with me."

Sex.

His voice is what I imagine sex would sound like if it could talk.

It drips and coaxes.

It commands and takes control.

And I can't help the loud breath that escapes me. Or maybe it's a moan. I don't know, I don't know. But I know I don't care anymore about the texts. I don't care why he's there and I'm here. I only care about the way my legs are stretching, spreading.

Wanting.

Wanting this so fucking much.

"Where are your hands?" he asks.

I'm frozen and can't speak.

"Tell me," he continues. "Where are they?"

"Next to me," I whisper.

"Good," he says, I can hear the smile in his voice again. "Keep them there."

My stomach clenches at his words. My hands grip tighter, harder. So fucking hard.

"Tell me something," he says smoothly.

And this is the man from before. This is the man I read about and dream about. This is the man who shouldn't ever really want me, but for some unexplainable reason he does.

"What?" I ask. "What do you want to know?"

His breathing is hard and short and a whole lot like mine.

"How long has it been since you touched yourself?" he asks.

A beat, a pause, a million heartbeats.

"A while."

"Tell me something else."

_Anything._

"Anything."

"How long has it been since your fingers made you come?"

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	11. Chapter 11

Come.

Just the word is enough to make my body jerk, seize...want. I want to come. And it's been too long since I've felt like this. Too long since coming has been anything more than just a release in tension. Something I only do to allow my body to relax enough to find sleep.

"So long," I whisper. "Too long."

"Fuck," he groans. "Your voice."

I moan and I can't even care that it's loud and embarrassing. I moan like I've forgotten that someone else can hear me.

"I'll bet you're hot," he whispers, all hushed and rough and quiet. "But no one knows that, do they? No one knows that you're like this, that you want something like this. Maybe even you."

His last words push through the clouded space of my mind. And I realize that on some level, they're true. I'm not supposed to want this. I'm not supposed to have these secret desires that no one ever speaks about. Which is why I buy dirty books in secret and read them alone in the privacy of my own house.

"Tell me you want this," he continues. And I'm grateful because I don't know if I can speak. I don't know if I'm capable of anything other than just simply being in this moment listening to him speak, amazed that he's opening hidden doors with keys that have been forgotten and put away for so long. "Tell me you want me to make you come with my words. That you want to put your fingers in your pussy and pretend they're mine while I tell you how to touch yourself...how to get you there."

Five deep breaths as my knees bend.

And my eyes are closed tight and my toes curl one, two, three times.

"Say it," he says. "Tell me."

"I do," I breathe, and it's like a release. "I want this. I want...that. Everything you just said."

And I feel like a weight is lifted. I feel like I'm lighter, open...so much more open than I was before.

I can't keep myself from thinking that men like him really do exist. They're out there somewhere. Not just in books and in the imaginations of women like me.

"Say it again."

I blink, I answer.

"I want this."

"Tell me you want me."

There's no thought, no pause.

Just the truth.

"I want you."

He groans, he shifts. I hear it as he moves. And I wonder if he's touching himself. I wonder if my voice is doing the same thing to him that his voice is doing to me. And I'm jealous for a moment at the thought that he would be touching himself. That he would be finding release without me when he told me that I couldn't yet.

Seconds pass, time stands still, and I realize that he hasn't spoken.

I breathe, I whimper...and then I hear him groan.

"How long has it been since another man was inside you?" he asks low and rough. "How long has it been since someone...fucked you? The way that I want to fuck you?"

His words are dirty, filthy, perfect.

So without thinking, I answer, "No one has ever fucked me like that. Ever."

It's the truth.

It's the absolute truth.

But before I can think about the fact that I'm thirty years old and have never - not once - been fucked the way he's describing, before I can allow myself to think about how sad and pathetic that is, before I have time to wonder what he's thinking...he responds.

"I would," he breathes. "If you let me, I would fuck you like that. I would make you feel good. I would make you come with my fingers and my mouth and my cock."

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	12. Chapter 12

"I would," I whisper, knowing at the very core of who I am, I would let him do anything he wanted if he was actually here. Because I would want it, too. So fucking much that it's painful. "I would let you."

"Fuck," he groans, and I shift, rolling to my side and squeezing my legs together for the relief the pressure provides.. "Yeah, you would. You would let me touch you and taste you...and fuck you."

I want to say something. I want to be woman enough to actually talk back to him and say things that will turn him on and make him feel the way I'm feeling. But I can't. I can't think, I can't speak. I've been rendered to nothing more than deep and heavy breaths that feel shallow. Nothing more than quiet whimpers and soft moans because I'm aching, aching, aching.

"Are you wet?" he murmurs. "Are you wet for me?"

"Yes," I pant.

I'm not touching myself, but I feel it. I know it. I know what his voice and his words are doing to me.

"And you're still not touching yourself?" he asks, but I'm not even sure it's a question. It's more like he knows. Like he knows that I'll do whatever he tells me. Just as long as he keeps telling me.

"No," I whisper. "But I want to."

"Soon," he says. "But right now...right now I want you to do something else with your fingers."

And the way he says it makes me want to scream. Makes me want to be completely naked a million times, begging him to do what he's doing to me right now.

"What..." I start, but have to take a shaking breath. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to take your pretty little finger," he says, breathing hard. "Your middle one because it's the biggest. Your middle one because it's the closest the closest thing you have to my cock."

My whole body shudders at his words.

"Oh, god," I moan.

"Take it," he continues. "Take it and put it in your mouth...and suck it. Suck it like you're sucking my cock. Suck it and imagine it's me. I want to hear you."

I want to do it. I want to so much. I want to be able to do this, but I don't know if I can.

"Do it," he presses. "Don't think about anything else. Just me. Just what you know you want to do to me. What I want you to do to me."

And then my hand is lifting, reaching. My finger extended, as I place it in my mouth. I push away everything but the way that it feels.

"Yes," he whispers, short and harsh. "I'll bet your mouth feels good. All warm and wet and soft. Now suck...suck and pretend that it's me."

I've never done this before. It's crazy, but all I can think about is how good it feels. And it's just my finger. No wonder men like blow jobs.

"You like that, don't you?" he says. "You like sucking my cock."

My body flushes with the heat of embarrassment and what I'm doing. And I close my eyes again and truly, truly imagine that it's him.

In my mouth.

Sucking, sucking, sucking...

And I do like it. I like this. "Mmmmm..." I moan around my finger, forgetting the reality and focusing on the fantasy.

"Goddamn," he whispers. "You're so fucking hot."

And right now, I am.

Right now, with his voice and his words and what I'm doing...I feel hot.

"I can't wait anymore," he says. "I just...I can't.

I hear his words even though I'm not listening. Even though everything I am is focused on the way this feels...the way I feel.

"Are you ready to come?" he asks. "Are you ready for me to make you come?"

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	13. Chapter 13

"Yes," I say without thinking. Only feeling. "I want you to make me come. And I want, I want…you to come, too."

I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. I should find some semblance of shame for what I'm doing with this…this stranger. But I can't.

"Fuck," he says. "Your voice. I love the sound of your voice. It's…god, you're…please, keep talking to me like that. Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me something…anything."

And just for a moment, I pause and grow nervous. And in the million seconds that seem to inhabit that moment, I'm suddenly aware of my surroundings. I'm more than conscious of where I am and what I'm actually doing.

My heart pounds, pounds, pounds.

I try to close my eyes, try to go back to that moment where it was just me and him.

But I can't.

And every moment that passes after takes me further away from the heat and whispered words and secret touching…and further into the harsh and cold reality that none of this is real.

"Come back to me," he whispers, hushed and soft. "I don't know where you just went, but you weren't here with me. Don't get shy now. Don't…don't try to push me away."

And his voice is real.

Genuine.

And enough to pull me back in.

So much that I want to live in his voice and stay wrapped up inside it forever.

"I'm not…I can't," I start, feeling embarrassed, but surprisingly honest in my vulnerability. "I don't think I can…_talk_…the way that _you_ talk. But I want…I want this to feel good…to _be_ good for you, too."

He moans, and it stirs something deep within me. Something that I've only read about in books that I never ever thought would be relevant to my life. Something that makes me ache and need and want so fucking much to give him whatever he needs or asks for.

And I wait for him to tell me…anything.

I wait, knowing that whatever it is – whatever he says – I'll give him.

"I'll talk," he says. "I'll ask all the questions, baby. And you can answer."

I sigh, releasing my breath, my insecurity.

I breathe in, feeling happier than I should that he seemed to know exactly what I need.

"Can you do that for me?" he whispers again. "Can you give me that? Because I need to hear you, too. I need to hear your voice and your words…and your little pants and moans."

"Yes," I breathe. "Yes, yes, yes…"

"I want you on your back," he tells me. "I want you on your back and I want your legs spread."

Without question, I comply.

"Tell me," he continues. "How do you feel?"

And I don't know if I can tell him how I'm feeling because I don't think I can put it into words. I am not the author of this moment.

He is.

"Don't think," he says. "Just…talk."

So I do.

"Hot," I whisper. My skin feels damp and the covers are too much. I want to kick them off, but I know I'd be left feeling exposed and open. "I feel hot and tense and…aching."

"Yeah, you are," he says smoothly and lowly like it's a secret between only us. "And I'll bet you're wet. I'll bet your pretty little pussy is wet and ready."

I shudder at his words, spreading my legs out further and pushing my feet against the mattress.

"Take your finger and touch it," he whispers. "Slide it inside and tell me what you feel. Tell me what I would feel if it were me. If I was the one touching you."

I could just tell him that I'm wet. And for a moment, I consider it. But I _want_ to do this. I want to touch myself, to _feel_ myself. And I want to tell him what I'm feeling.

So, my hand slides down over my skin. It's shaking but determined. And I'm wet. I'm so wet it should be embarrassing.

"Are you wet?" he asks again.

"Yes," I tell him. "Wet."

"How wet are you?"

"So wet," I breathe.

My body shakes, and I want to press against my clit. I want to make myself come and I know that I could in under thirty seconds.

And just as I'm about to do exactly that, he speaks.

And what he says, fucking kills me.

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	14. Chapter 14

"Wet enough to handle my fingers?" he asks, pants. "Wet enough to handle my cock? Or would I have to lick you first? Because I want you drenched."

My body jerks as my finger presses down hard. I hold it there, willing myself not to come yet, but I could. I moan loudly – too loudly. And I know that I will never be able to read another book again without hearing his voice, remembering his words. Because they are so much better than any dirty words that have ever been imagined. And they're so much better because he's saying them to me.

"Stop," he says.

"Fuck me," I moan.

And I don't know what he wants me to stop doing. Does he want me to stop touching myself? Does he want me to stop speaking? Honestly, I don't think I can do either. Not now. Not when everything, everything is so close.

I am so fucking close.

"I would." His voice is low. "If I were there, I would fuck you so hard and so good. And I promise you would come…but not yet. I wouldn't _let_ you come yet."

My hand stills and moves to my belly. I can feel my fingers slick and wet against my skin. I'm breathing hard and needing, needing, needing _something_ so much.

Anything.

"I want…" I whimper. "Oh, god."

"What do you want?" he asks. "Tell me what you want."

This.

Everything, everything, everything.

"You."

Silence.

And I don't know why.

Silence.

And I wonder if I've said too much.

"Fuck," he says. "Yeah, you do. You want me, don't you?"

My fingers press down against my stomach. I can feel the sting of my short nails biting into my skin.

"Yes."

I don't care how I sound. I don't care that this isn't real. Because it feels real. I feel so much. More than I've felt in so long. Maybe more than I've felt ever.

"Spread yourself open," he whispers. "Take two fingers and spread yourself open for me."

And I do.

And my hands shake against my skin that's so hot it's burning.

"Do you feel that?" he whispers.

"What?" I ask.

I think I ask.

I'm not sure if I'm actually speaking.

"Tell me what you feel," he says. "Because I know you're feeling _something_."

And I can't believe he wants me to talk – can't believe he wants me to do anything more than try not rub my clit.

"I can't," I tell him, frustration apparent in my voice.

"You can," he encourages. "Now, tell me what you're feeling . Right now."

I swallow, I breathe.

I speak.

"I feel my fingers," I tell him, licking my dry lips. "I'm hot…down there…I'm hot."

Stupid.

My words are stupid.

"Down there?" he asks. I can hear the smile in his voice. "Down where? Tell me…what are you touching?"

And he wants me to say it.

And I want to say it.

"My…my pussy."

It's a whisper, but he hears it. He groans and I feel better. He groans and I know that he likes it. And that gives me confidence.

"Is the air cold against your wet pussy?" he asks, his voice shaking just a little. And maybe he isn't all that different from me. Maybe he's just as affected.

"Yes."

"Do you want me to let you rub it?" he asks. "Touch it? Do you want me to let you finger yourself?"

"Please," I beg.

No really, I'm fucking begging.

And it should piss me off, but it doesn't.

I should be angry, but I'm not.

"Do you think one finger will be big enough for you to imagine it's my cock?" he whispers, his voice still smiling.

And I can't help but think about his cock. Can't help but wish for it. And I wonder what it looks like. I wonder just how big it is. If this were a book, his cock would be as big as my wrist.

"No," I breathe. "I wouldn't."

He groans.

Me, too.

"Use two."

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	15. Chapter 15

I don't even think.

My fingers touch and slide, and slick moisture spreads and coats. And I'm moaning. I can't help it. It feels so good. It feels like the beginning of a release that I've needed for so fucking long. His breathing encourages me. I can almost feel it as it turns me on more. My finger pauses at my entrance, when I remember his words.

And slowly, slowly, slowly…I slide two of them inside.

I gasp.

I pause.

His voice sounds in my ear, "You can't know how hot you sound right now. You don't know what you're doing to me."

But I do.

It's him – _he doesn't know_.

I don't think he can ever know just what he's done. Just exactly what he's doing.

A sound escapes me. It's somewhere between a cry and a breath.

"I'll bet you're tight," he whispers. "I'll bet you're so fucking tight and wet."

And I am. I'm just what he said he wanted. I'm fucking drenched for him. It's all over my hand, on my leg, on the soft sheet beneath me.

"How long has it been?" he asks.

I can hear him moving in the background. Hard and quick motions. And I know that he's touching himself. I know that he's touching himself like me.

"How long?" he continues, breathless. "How long has it been since another man was inside your pussy?"

And I can't think. I can only feel my fingers fucking myself. I can only focus on the way that it feels.

"Too long," I breathe.

"How long?"

"Years," I whisper, my thumb sliding across my clit. And there are no secrets anymore. There is just this – what's happening between us. "It's been two years."

"Fuck," he hisses.

"I know," I pant.

Because I do. I know it's been too long. I know that I need this – that I've needed this. But I've been too scared…too closed off. I've been hurt before. And even though being alone isn't easy, it's easier than the pain. That the fear of rejection.

The romance in books always ends with happiness. The men in books can't hurt you.

"Are you thinking about me?" he asks. "Are you imagining it's me inside you right now?"

"Yes," I tell him because it's the truth. "Oh, _fuck_…yes," I continue because I can't stop.

"I wish I was there," he pants. "I wish I could feel you all slick and tight and wet around me. I wish I could watch my cock sliding in and out of your pussy. And I would. _I fucking would_. I wouldn't be able to stop watching me fuck you. And I would fuck you so, so good. You would feel me inside you for days."

"Stop!" I cry because I can't take it.

His words are too much and exactly enough.

"No," he grunts. "You need this. _I fucking need this_."

And I feel it. It's close. It's so fucking close. And I want to just get there, but I'm afraid of what will happen when I do. Because then, this will all be over. This will be nothing more than the coincidence that it is. The random text that led to a random act between two strangers. And right now he doesn't feel like a stranger. Right now, it feels like he's with me...inside me.

"Are you close?" he asks. "I'm so fucking close."

"Yes…"

I don't even see the edge. I just fall. For a million years I fall.

And there's nothing but this.

There's nothing but him.

Him…

Him…

Him…

Then everything shatters.

Everything breaks.

Everything stops because he says my name.

"Bella…oh god, Bella."

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	16. Chapter 16

Disconnected.

My thoughts.

My mind from my body.

The call.

Everything is disconnected.

I drag myself from my bed. I look at the clock on my nightstand, barely noting that it's after two in the morning. And with shaking legs and everything inside me trembling, I walk to the bathroom and stand under the hot water in my shower.

He knew my name.

And I know – _I fucking know_ – I didn't tell him.

He knows me.

The whole time he knew.

And my mind replays every word. My body remembers every touch, every single response. And I press my back against the cold tile wall, feeling myself slowly slide down until I'm sitting in the tub.

.

.

.

I don't even feel anything as I stand in the kitchen watching the coffee brew. I didn't sleep last night. I couldn't. I would have called out of work at the library this morning, but that would have meant turning on my phone. And it's been off since last night. It's on the floor beside my bed. I don't know if I'll ever pick it up again.

I want to be furious, but I'm too tired and that would require more energy than I have. So, I'm left with shame. Humiliation. Red cheeks and heart that's pounding a little too quickly for someone who hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not ashamed because I feel like what I did was wrong.

I don't.

I'm an adult and there are far worse things I could have done.

I am ashamed because it wasn't anonymous. And that's what it was supposed to be.

It's the same way with the dirty books. That's why no one buys them in stores. No one takes a book with a half-naked man on a more than suggestive cover up to the counter at Barnes and Noble. Why? Well, first of all, because it's embarrassing. Secondly, a teenager would probably ring you up. And I would just die a little inside.

He knew.

He knew the entire time who I was.

And that means he knows who I am.

That means that he knows me. In my real life, he knows me. And while I have no idea who _he_ could be, he knew.

He knows.

.

.

.

Three days pass.

Three days of walking with my head down because I don't know who might be watching. He could pass me on the street, in the grocery store, at the library.

_Fuck, I hope he's not someone at the library._

I think I would know him from his voice. And I haven't heard his voice since that night.

Except when I'm asleep and dreaming.

Three days of hiding my kindle because that's what got me into this in the first place.

Three days of ignoring my phone that I had to turn back on because – let's face it – I have to have a phone.

Three days.

Four unanswered calls.

And five unread texts.

All from his "unknown" number.

Well, fuck him.

.

.

.

I'm changing my number tomorrow.

.

.

.

**A/N**

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	17. Chapter 17

The good thing about changing your phone number is that the people you don't want to call you can't.

The bad thing (at least for me) is that you realize that not very many people called you to begin with. Or at all. Whatever.

A week has passed and I'm feeling a little more normal. I'm not as on edge, not as tense and defensive. Although, a man approached me at the library the other day. He whispered my name behind me, and just for a second, I thought it might be him. I whirled around, ready to give him a piece of my mind. You know, quietly because it's the library. But it was just Waylon, my boss' husband.

Yeah, not my finest moment.

Tonight, I've even considered reading another book. It's dark outside and a little too quiet inside. Even Jasper and Emmett have been ignoring me completely. I pick up my kindle and I settle in on the couch. It's saved on the same cover as it was over a week ago. My fingers trace over the screen for a moment before my eyes focus and I start reading.

I want to like this book.

I really want to like this book.

But every time the hero speaks, I hear _his_ voice. Every time the plot leads me to something erotic and sexual, I remember that night.

Frustrated, I drop the kindle on my couch and head upstairs.

Sleep isn't any easier.

His voice fills my dreams. His words, what I did, what we did together seems more vivid with my eyes closed. I feel an anxiety I don't understand pressing against my chest. I feel like I can't breathe. Like I haven't really breathed deeply since that night.

I look at the clock. It's after two, and I wish I could get some rest. I _need_ to get some rest. Putting on a sweater, I walk downstairs and head to my front porch.

Maybe some fresh air will help me relax. Or at least breathe.

It's cool outside, but not cold. And I sit on the porch swing I had installed last year. It's quiet. Peaceful. Dark. There's no light at all with the exception of an upstairs light from my neighbor's house. And I don't know why, but I take a little comfort in the fact that I'm not alone in my insomnia.

Of course, that makes me a bitch, and I try to feel sorry.

Only I can't.

I'm already a bitch for not knowing any of my neighbors to begin with.

I close my eyes. I breathe in deeply. And I feel the sweet relief of my lungs expanding fully. The anxiety that spiked only moments before seems to ease, and the night air settles around me.

This is why I moved back here two years ago.

The peace.

The quiet.

I don't know how long I stay like that. I even fall asleep for a moment. But somewhere in the waking part of my mind, I feel someone watching me.

I tense, but don't open my eyes.

I tell myself I'm crazy, but I still _feel_ it.

Seven deep breaths and forty-eight seconds later, the feeling still hasn't passed.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I open my eyes.

And there's nothing.

There's no one.

Just the peace and quiet and dark…and my overactive imagination.

Shaking my head, I stand up to head inside.

I notice that my neighbor's light is off now. And whoever they are, I'm happy that at least they're getting some sleep.

And I smile, thinking maybe I'm not such a bitch after all.


	18. Chapter 18

Today is a stupid day.

I have a stupid job that I'm probably going to lose because I'm so tired that I can't function properly.

Somewhere, there's a stupid man who fucked with me and I don't know why.

And I'm the stupid fucking girl who changed my phone number so he couldn't fuck with me again.

And lately – if you consider all the seconds of every minute I'm awake lately – I've been thinking that was a mistake.

I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop thinking about the texts, about the call, about everything we did on the call. I can hear his voice. And I don't know him. I _know_ I would know that voice. But he knew me. He must have. He said my name.

And I wish that I had a fucking photographic memory. If this was a book, and I was a heroine in the book, I would totally have fucking photographic memory. Because that would be integral to the plot. Because the heroine would conveniently remember his phone number…and call him.

But once again, this is further proof that my life is nothing like a novel. Even a cheap novel that you can get for ninety-nine cents on Amazon. No, because even though those books have shitty plots, they usually have enough smut to make up for it.

I have no smut.

And no photographic memory to make this story somewhat interesting.

I only have a shitty plot – a freaking ninety-nine cent shitty plot.

Yep. That about sums it up. And even my summary sucks.

I stop to get a cup of coffee on my way home because I'm pretty sure I need it in order to stay awake on the drive home. The good news is that I'm so exhausted, I'll probably fall asleep the moment I lay down. The bad news is that they sent me home early because I "clearly wasn't feeling well."

See? I told you. My job is stupid, but I'm even stupider.

Awesome.

The coffee works to keep me awake, but it serves to make me a shaking, jittery mess. And by the time I get home and pull in my driveway, the only thing I want to do is cry. But I'm not really a crier. So, I check the mailbox instead.

I walk in the house and I'm about to drop the mail on the table when I notice an envelope. And not like a regular bill or something boring kind of envelope. It's a pretty envelope – all white linen paper and pretty handwriting on it. I pause, wondering who would send me a card and I look closer.

"Fuck," I hiss, rolling my eyes.

The pretty envelope isn't even addressed to me. It was supposed to go to the house next door. And there's my neighbor's name, written in the pretties script I've ever seen.

Edward Cullen

Well, Edward will just have to wait.

I'm too tired to walk it over.

Like I said before, I'm not really into meeting and getting to know my neighbors. Maybe I can just drop it in his box. I place it back on my table and head upstairs. I take a hot shower, and the whole time I pray for sleep.

I know that I really must be pitiful, because as I lay down, Jasper and Emmett curl up beside me. And I don't know if it's their slow, soft purring or their warm little bodies all snuggled next to mine, but I sleep.

Hard.

With the stranger's voice filling my dreams.

And not giving a single thought to Edward Cullen and his letter.

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**A/N**

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	19. Chapter 19

When I wake up, it's twilight.

The sun has fallen, and every muscle in my body has the delicious ache of sleep. For the first time in over a week, I feel rested. Of course, it means I won't get any sleep tonight, but I feel so good that I don't care.

I dress and head downstairs with Jasper and Emmett at my heels. I start to head to the kitchen, when Jasper jumps up and knocks all the mail off the table. And I swear to god, it's almost like he does that shit on purpose.

Fucking spiteful, gay cat.

I see my neighbor's letter on the floor. Sighing I knock Jasper off the table and bend over and pick it up. I suppose I should head over and give it to him before it gets too late. Even if he is a night owl like me.

As I walk across the yard, I look down at the letter. Because I'm a nosy bitch. And I see that the sender's name is Esme Cullen.

That's a weird fucking name.

I probably shouldn't tell him that, though. It's probably his mother. Yep. On top of being well-read in all things smut, I'm also a regular Nancy Drew.

I don't know why, but when I approach his house, I get the strangest feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's unsettling, and it tingles all the way down my spine. Shaking it off, I walk up the stairs to his porch. And I've never noticed it before, but he has a porch swing just like mine. I'm not sure why I find that oddly comforting.

The lights are on inside, but the shades are drawn. It's probably a good thing, since apparently, my nosiness would lead me to peeking through his window like a fucking creeper. I knock on his door…one, two, three times.

And I wait.

And wait.

Finally, I've waited so long that I'm about to just deposit the letter on his porch. But I'm really not a total bitch. It is Forks, and odds are it's going to rain in about twenty seconds. I could just shove it in his mailbox, but I remember my dad telling me once that opening another person's mailbox is a federal offense or something.

Thankfully, I hear soft footsteps behind the door.

And then it opens.

And then…then I want to die.

Standing in front of me is quite possibly the most beautiful man I've ever, ever seen. Seriously. Lean and tall, with perfect lips. The kind of lips I read about in books. The kind of lips that make me want to hang myself for not brushing my hair and putting on makeup before coming over here. And his hair is dark. Red, maybe. Only I can't tell because it's wet, like he just got out of the shower. And his jaw… Fuck me, his jaw.

I'm staring.

I'm standing on his porch with his letter in my hand…and I'm fucking staring.

And not talking.

Yep. This is my life. This is my life and another divine example of how my life is not like a book. A book would have dialogue. And I have no words.

"Can I help you?" he asks, smiling.

At least I think he's smiling. It could be a smile…or a smirk.

And I shove the letter out in front of me. Like it's contaminated or something.

"This came in the mail," I say. "And it's not mine. It's yours. At least I think it's yours. It addressed to Edward Cullen. Are you Edward Cullen?"

He laughs and something picks at the edge of my rattled mind. I still must be sleep deprived.

He nods his head and takes the letter from my hand. And I swear on the name of all that is good and holy, there is a spark of electricity as his fingers brush mine.

I jerk my hand back like the freak that I am, and he laughs. And one again, the same feeling I had a minute ago washes over me. It's almost like déjà-vu. But that's impossible because I have never, never, never seen him before.

It's because he looks like one of the men from my secret books.

They do exist in reality.

Just not in my reality.

Only in the reality of the house next to mine.

The one I've ignored.

I don't even know when he moved in.

"Okay, then," I mumble, trying to compose myself. I'm not successful in my attempts. "That's all. Goodnight."

I turn to head down the stairs, but his voice stops me dead in my tracks.

Dead, dead, dead.

"Thank you, Bella."

It's my name.

And his voice.

_The same fucking voice._

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**A/N**

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	20. Chapter 20

"Say that again," I say, turning around on the step to look at him.

I sound much stronger than I actually am. Because if it's really him, if it's _really, really_ him, I may pass the fuck out on these stairs.

"What?" he asks, smiling even though his eyes are wide and look a little bit scared.

But it's _his_ voice.

It's definitely his voice.

"Say my name," I tell him, stepping up onto the porch. "Say my name again."

He looks at me for a long time. And I notice for the first time that his eyes are the deepest shade of green. They look like the trees and moss that surround us. And right now they're looking at me so intensely, I can almost feel the pressure of them against my skin, the heat of them inside me.

He steps in a little closer, and without thinking, I step in a little closer, too.

"Say it."

My voice shakes.

He swallows.

"Bella," he breathes, looking in my eyes.

And my body lights on fire.

Just from his voice.

The same fucking voice.

"It's you," I whisper. "It was _you_."

And this is the moment.

If this were a book, he would reach across the space and take me in his arms. We would share a laugh and a kiss and have some really hot and dirty sex.

Probably on his porch swing.

Smut books are into common fetishes.

Exhibitionism would be in line and probably appreciated.

But this isn't a book.

And even though he's definitely beautiful enough to be described in the pages of a novel, he is not a hero. And I am definitely _not_ a heroine.

I want to run.

I want to cry.

I want to kiss him, but I also want to kick him in the balls for what he did.

"You know," he says. I try to ignore how low and sweet and perfect his voice is. "_You know me_."

And I'm furious.

I'm so hurt and so furious that I snap.

"I can't be sure," I say flippantly, my voice higher than usual. "Maybe you should pull out your cock and we can see if it's as big as my two fingers."

He barks out a laugh, but heat covers my face and chest from my anger, my words.

And I watch as he reaches out, presumably to touch me. And he's smiling.

Well, fuck him.

"No," I hiss, but he grabs my elbow before his hand slides down to mine.

His hand feels too good holding mine.

So good.

So fucking good.

"Why? Wait – why?" I stammer. "Why did you do that?"

I think back to that night. To everything he said, everything I said. And I could die of embarrassment right now.

I might.

"Come inside," he says, his voice lower than before. "Let's talk about this inside."

I laugh. It's loud and unattractive.

And I don't care.

"I'm not coming in there with you," I hiss. "I don't even _know_ you!"

"Oh?" he asks, his voice taking on that tone that made my knees weak while we were on the phone. And maybe a little weak now. "I think you know me pretty well. And I definitely know you. At least…I know _some_ of your secrets. Not all of them, of course. But I want to."

His smile makes me angry.

It makes me hot.

He pulls my hand, and before I know what's happening, he's ushering me inside his house. The door closes behind us, and then he steps in closer, closer…so close.

"Why did you do that?" I ask.

I feel like I should be looking around, gaining my bearings. Something, anything but looking in his eyes. But I can't look away. I'm standing with my back pressed up against the door. I'm looking in his eyes that are even greener, brighter in the soft light.

"Why did I do what?" he breathes. And it just like before. Only this time I can feel his breath against my neck. "Why did I text you? Talk to you? Make you hot? Make you…come?"

_I will not moan._

_I will not fucking moan._

My mouth doesn't, but I swear to god, my entire body moans like a fucking whore at his words. And his voice, his voice is even smoother, even deeper, even sexier than it was on the phone. I feel it trickle down and cover every inch of my body.

"Why did you text me?" I ask, my voice small, tight. "How did you even know my number?"

"Those are two different questions," he says, leaning and breathing deeply. It's like he's smelling me or something. Which is weird, but also kind of hot. "Which one do you want me to answer first?"

"Why?" I whisper, still not understanding.

But he's so, so close. And he smells so, so good. Which I suppose makes me weird, too.

"I saw you," he whispers. "I see you. And I watched you for days, months. So quiet and keeping to yourself. Watching you come and go. Wondering what you were doing behind closed doors."

"You watched me?" I ask, the surprise in my voice isn't masked. There's nothing remotely interesting or exciting about me.

He licks his lips and swallows.

I follow suit, but it's not nearly as sexy as when he does it.

"At first, I thought I was just enamored of you…fascinated," he says. "But soon after, I realized I wanted to _know_ you. I wanted to get to know you."

No one has ever wanted to get to know me.

Not really.

"Why didn't you just introduce yourself?" I ask, sanity and reason peeking through the haze of his unbelievable sexuality. "I don't know…come over. Knock on my door or something?"

His eyes hold mine for twenty-seven heartbeats and not one breath.

He leans in. His lips are at my ear, his warm breath against my neck.

And two sides war inside of me. One wants to push him away. And the other want to pull him close and take off all his clothes.

I almost laugh because I know which of those books I would want to read.

"Because my way was so much more fun."

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**A/N**

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	21. Chapter 21

"Your way was deceitful," I hiss. "Your way…." I pause, wondering if I should say it because the truth exposes me and makes me vulnerable. "…your way hurt me."

He pulls back to look at me, his eyes remorseful and apologetic.

And I try to ignore the fact that every part of my body is aching to believe that he is.

"I know," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to say your name like that. When you…did that. I didn't want to hurt you. But you have to admit, Bella, nothing leading up to the end of our conversation was…painful."

I gulp.

He presses further against me.

"You liked it," he whispers. "You wanted it."

And it's like he's in my mind. Like he knows all my dirty secrets. And not only does he not care, he likes them.

"I did," I breathe, surprised by my own honesty.

"And what about now?" he asks all low and hot.

And even though I know what he means, I ask, "What _about_ now?"

"I haven't been able to get you out of my mind," he whispers. "All fucking week. I'd remember the way you sounded when you were all hot and wet and turned on for me. Touching yourself. And when you came… I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that. So, I watched you. All week long, I watched because…I didn't want to scare you anymore. I…I put the letter in your mailbox. I mean, I hoped you would come over because you would have to bring it to me, right? And then you came. You _fucking_ came. And I _wanted_ you to recognize me. I _knew_ you would recognize my voice."

"That's kind of creepy," I say, smiling. "The mailbox part. And the watching me part."

I mean, I know that if this were a book, I would be expected to find it hot.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? It is hot. Well, it's a little hot. Equal parts creepy and hot.

"I guess I'm kind of creepy, then," he says, smiling and shrugging. "But you know what?"

He presses fully against me, and I melt.

Like fucking butter.

Yes, all my metaphors are about butter.

"What?"

"I think you like it."

He pulls back to look at me, the moment seems more serious than our playful words. His rapid breathing matches mine. His chest rises and falls, touching me each time.

And I realize that I don't care if this is like a book. I don't care about anything other than the way I'm feeling…and the man standing in front of me. Because he's making me feel this way.

And I want him.

More than I wanted him that night on the phone.

More than I've ever wanted anyone ever, ever, ever.

"I do," I whisper.

A blink, a gasp.

And then his lips are on mine. Hot and wet and needy. His tongue opens my mouth and I suck it inside.

Tasting, tasting, tasting.

And it's good. And it soft and hard and more than I could have imagined a kiss could be. It makes me feel more than I've ever felt reading about it in a book. And it's happening, happening…happening to me.

He groans against my lips.

I gasp into his mouth.

His hands slide their way down the curves of my thirty-year-old body before grabbing my ass and pulling me completely against him.

I can feel him pressing against me. Really pressing against me. And he's hard. So hard. And I think he's big. But I can't tell for sure because – like the sex goddess I am – I'm wearing sweat pants. Not even cute thin yoga pants. No, the bulky grey sweat pants you buy from Target.

He pushes against me harder.

"Bella," he groans my name into my mouth.

I'm tasting my name on his lips, his tongue.

And fuck me, I'm so fucking stupid because the hot man with the dirty words and the beautiful lips is kissing me and rubbing his cock against my stomach, and I'm thinking about sweat pants.

Screw the sweat pants.

Screw all the sweat pants ever!

I pull back, needing air, but I don't want to stop kissing him. So, I move my lips to his neck and I say his name over and over again against his skin.

"Edward, Edward, Edward…"

"Fuck," he groans, it loud and hot. "That's my name," he says lower. "You're saying my name."

_Why is that hot?_

_Why is that so fucking hot?_

"You said mine first," I whisper, pulling back and looking at him.

I lick my lips.

He watches.

I lick them again. Mostly because he's watching, but also because they taste like his lips.

He laughs, and I can't help but laugh, too.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks.

Because this is crazy.

"Because I just met you – literally moments ago," I say, suddenly feeling strange about the whole situation. "Because you're a stranger, but on some level I've already had…_sex_…" I whisper the word because here in the light it seems dirty to say it. I ignore the fact that I kind of like that it's dirty. "…with you. Because you're holding me up against the wall and because your hands are on my ass. All of this is _crazy_."

He doesn't put me down like I expect him to. Instead, he pulls me closer, he pushes himself harder against me.

And he's still hard.

"It seems to me you could use a little crazy in your life," he murmurs.

"Are you saying that you're crazy?" I ask.

I'm mostly kidding, but he did admit to basically lurking and watching me for months. And there's still the fact that I don't know how he got my phone number.

"I am a little crazy," he whispers.

"Good crazy or bad crazy?"

"I guess you'll just have to find out."

He leans in to kiss me again, and god, I really fucking want him to. But I pull back, needing to ask him, "Hey, how did you know my phone number?"

"Does it matter?" he asks, pressing his lips against mine.

"Yes," I breathe.

His tongue slips inside. He kisses me deeper, deeper, deeper.

"Does it still matter?" he asks.

"Maybe," I tell him, smiling. "Were you really drunk?" I ask, changing the subject. "That night when you texted me?"

He sighs, and I brace myself for something bad.

Like, somehow I know that all of this is too good to be true. It can't be really happening.

I seriously have a moment and I'm wondering if I'm still at home asleep and dreaming.

"No," he says, his eyes holding mine and what seems to be the truth. "I just couldn't not talk to you anymore. I couldn't take it. I had to try to get to know you…I wanted…I wanted to _hear_ you."

His words – yeah, they kill me a little.

He pulls back to look at me and his eyes…his eyes are telling a story on their own. And I realize I want to know _his_ story. I want to know more about him. But he beats me to the punch.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," he says. "I'm serious. I meant what I said. I want to know you."

I look at him for a long time.

Almost trying to gauge if he's sincere.

"I have two gay cats," I tell him.

"Of course you do," he laughs. "Perfect."

"Why is that perfect?"

"I fucking love gay cats," he says, leaning in and running his nose along my neck. And then I feel his tongue. Then slowly, slowly, slowly, he places his mouth right over the shell of my ear. "But not as much as I love pussy."

And then he bites down.

I shudder and gasp.

I grip his shoulders tighter because I feel like I might fall.

"What happens now?" I ask, still reeling from this new reality.

His eyes find mine one more time, his lips kiss mine softly three more times.

And pulling back, he looks at me and gives me this devastating smile.

Seriously.

Devastating.

I will never, ever recover.

And he says quietly, but surely, "Whatever we fucking want."

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**A/N**

**Reviews are love.**

**Please leave me some.**

**Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for the wonderful response today! ILY all so much for continuing to read my words and support me. You guys make this fun and you make me want to write dirty, funny stories for you to read.**

**And a huge thank you to my pre-readers! Caren, Jaime, Kourt, Laura and Raina…I couldn't do this without you. Your love and support means the word to me. And I love you more than any threesome fantasy I have starring me, Rob and Zefron.**

**Thank you to JaimeArkin who helped with the editing of these chapters. You make me smile every single day. And I love and appreciate you so very much.**

**And to my soulmate, partner and ficwife, Marvar… I adore you. I have always, always adored you. And I mean it when I say that the best thing I ever did was write a fic. Because you read it and reviewed it. And from that, you became one of my very best friends in the world.**


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